


rain

by g0ryllama



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: A Metaphor for Love, Fluff, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Rain as a Metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 16:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19213111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/g0ryllama/pseuds/g0ryllama
Summary: It's raining. Like the world is crying.Does it know how much it's loved?





	rain

It's raining, Snufkin realises with a sigh, the background noise slowly muting itself until all he can hear is the careful shushing noise of the water hitting the window behind him.

After a moment, he stands from the sofa and walks out onto the veranda, the dark grey clouds above blocking the sunlight and drowning the world in muted colours and mist. The greens look dull, the flowers pale and waterlogged.

The rain itself rushes down in sheets, ebbs and flows like the clouds can't decide how hard it should come down. Like the world is crying.

Snufkin hops onto the fence, crossing his legs one over the other, back against the pillar, facing the rest of the valley with a neutral expression. 

He's always loved the rain. The comfort it brings him to know that things will always change, no matter where he is. He catches a few raindrops in his hand and watches them rush off of his skin and onto the ground despite his attempt at saving them.

Does the rain know how much it's loved? Can it understand how desperately Snufkin loves it, even if he can't show it? He can try as hard as he can to stop it hitting the ground but eventually it will always land, without him, and there's nothing he can do to prevent that. He can scream at the top of his lungs that he wishes he could be with it all the time, that it wouldn't leave, but at the end of the day, it'll mean nothing if it can't hear him.

Restless, he slides off the fence and jumps to the ground with a splash, not caring that his boots now feel soggy, or that he forgot his hat inside. The water tracks down his face, caressing softly, but it'd never understand. It's all over him and it feels stifling, uncomfortable, but he'd rather deal with that than risk never feeling it at all. Because some small part of him wants to never be without it. A bigger part never wants to forget how it feels.

He lifts his face up to the clouds and decides he can't tell it how he feels. He'd never be free to be himself, it'd always be Snufkin  _ and _ the rain, never just Snufkin.

He doesn't quite understand why that makes the void inside of him bigger.

No one in their right mind would stand outside in the rain, soaked to the skin and shivering and yet still standing ground, determined and sure. Even when his fists begin to shake and the rain on his face tastes salty and warm against the cold and plain rain around him, he stands, staring blankly upwards. What is a 'right mind' exactly? Is there such a thing when talking of love?

What he does know is that love and rain are seasonal things. He doesn't get rain in Winter, only snow and ice, the same basic make-up of rain but colder, emptier, distant. It feels fresh in the Spring, warm in the Summer, cool in the Autumn. All so different even though it's the same. Why does it have the same name when it feels so different?

A rumble of thunder in the distance snaps him out of his blank state, sliding a hand through his wet hair and making his way back to the porch, sitting on the steps. 

What would the rain say if it knew of his constant internal conflict? Would it worry? Would it laugh? Would it take his hands and gently reassure him that it changes nothing?

Would it return his feelings?

His head feels heavy in his hands, his heart heavy in his chest.

Dear rain. Misunderstood, clingy and yet the most expressive weather he's come across. Nothing like the sun, nothing like the wind, nothing like the snow. So separate, so different, so special.

Dear… Rain.

He's never felt like more of a coward than when his own thoughts won't admit that this has nothing to do with the rain, the water, the clouds.

He'd sit on this porch for years before ever admitting it.

Wordlessly, a blanket is draped over his shoulders, a cup of honey and lemon placed in his hands with a gentleness so similar to the caress of the rain on his face he almost crumbles.

Moomintroll sits silently next to him, his own mug steaming. They don't need words; Snufkin understands what the paw on his arm means.

He just hopes Moomin understands what he means when he sighs quietly and holds his paw in his hand, tangling their fingers together, the rain falling harder as the thunder grows closer.

**Author's Note:**

> its raining and im sad so snufkin is too
> 
> wheres my moomin when i need one


End file.
